Thunderbird
by Ashynarr
Summary: There was a time where spirits ruled the world, but they all eventually died away as the faith in them faded. A few of the cleverer ones, however, managed to find their own ways around the issue... [AU, drabble collection]
1. Alfred's Tale

Thunderbird (Hetalia)

Author: Ashynarr

Summary: There was a time where spirits ruled the world, but they all eventually died away as human faith in them faded. A few of the warier ones, however, managed to find their own ways around the issue...

Disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine.

Warning: Lots of mythological references, vaguely OOC characters

~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~

_There was a time, before humans started to take control of the world around them, where nature ruled all. Men and women and children alike would quiver at the howling wind in the night, pay cautious heed to the world outside their closed in villages and fires. The unknown was to be feared and respected, given sacrifices of blood and food and faith in order to keep their homes and families safe and healthy._

_They believed in spirits, beings borne of the forces that commanded the world around them._

_In that sense, they were right. _

_But faith is a fickle thing. Enlightenment came to humans, and with it the darkness, the unknown, the magic of the world was shoved away, buried, forgotten - and the spirits with them. New forces ruled the world now - electricity, science, nations, innovation, networking - and there was no place for the old ways in the new world order._

_That didn't stop some from finding a way._

~0~0~

For nearly his entire life, Alfred had dreamed of the sky.

For a young Nation, this wasn't new - almost all Nations had had dreams of manned flight in one form of another, and some had even succeeded in limited form. France had bragged for ages about his hot air balloons, carrying men and women up thousands of feet into the sky and returning them safely to the Earth.

Alfred's were a bit different.

For one, he had wings. Grand, beautiful brown and white speckled wings that crackled with wild electricity, each wingbeat a muted drum of thunder. He could soar through the fiercest of storms - could almost _be_ the storms - and fly so high he could see the earth curve away from him, the ocean glimmering with reflected sunlight.

It was gorgeous to behold, and so real that the young Nation would ache with the loss when he woke up in the morning, trapped under sheets in his wide, empty house. Some days, it drove him out and up one of the old trees behind his house, a brief chance to be closer to the open sky above.

(Arthur had caught him outside during a thunderstorm once, eyes closed as his face tilted up towards the clouds. He'd quickly been dragged inside, the older Nation chastising him while drying him off and bundling him as warmly as could be managed, eventually being settled next to the fireplace to ward off the last chance of chilling.

Alfred never mentioned how he'd almost felt at home out there, drenched in cold water and surrounded by the sounds of rumbling thunder.)

Many a time he'd caught himself staring west, drawn to the lands beyond his own. Arthur would refuse all requests to let him explore, even when the colony pleaded.

"I just want to see what's out there! I swear this isn't about expanding!"

"Do you really think I'd fall for that? I've heard your people grumbling about the treaties keeping them to this side of the mountains; one trip is going to become more, each longer than the last, and of course you're going to build shelter and bring friends if you're out there for so long, and before one knows it there's a new town in place, and we're dealing with hostile Indians all over again."

Alfred shook his head. "I wouldn't do that."

Arthur sighed. "Wouldn't you, though? Trust me, Alfred, it's safer if your people just stick to the treaties. You already have plenty of room along the coast - perhaps you could build a few new settlements further south?"

The colony would always give a mumbled reply, ducking his head to mask his frustration. He hadn't been lying about his intentions, but how could he explain the feelings drawing him towards the setting sun? Something out there was calling to him, almost like the sirens the older Nation would whisper about in his stories of life on the sea.

(He wasn't sure whether that was a good sign or not, but in his heart he desperately wanted to believe it was an answer waiting for him out there and not a death trap.)

(Once, he'd thought to ask one of Arthur's faerie friends if they had an idea what it might be. All they'd done was warn him about the lower path and the wrong magics before disappearing again.

They'd never really taken to him, had they? To be fair, he'd always been leery of them as well, no matter how much Arthur trusted them. They were just… off, in a way he couldn't describe.)

Then came the times where he had to put all thoughts of flight and the western expanses in favor of fighting for his survival, for his right to rule himself. It was long, bloody, and miserable, the first time America and Alfred had been in conflict with each other even as they'd run and begged for help and stood their ground against the mightiest empire in the world.

And won.

(And lost his entire family along the way.)

With nothing else to do after establishing his independence twice,

(The second time had hurt more, but not because of the Fire.)

he looked west again, this time with nothing shackling him to his coastline. His people drove him onward (or was it the other way around?), and though his heart ached in muted sympathy at what the price for that western movement was, he simply couldn't stop what was already in motion, allowing himself to be led towards that distant ocean… and towards Mexico.

Whatever was drawing him was somewhere in her heartlands. And Texas was so eager to be free of her influence…

Well, needs must. Quite a few of his people wanted claims on the Pacific anyways; the rest would come around eventually.

(So why did it feel like betrayal?)

~0~0~

September in Mexico's lands felt more like July back east. Alfred could feel sweat dripping down his back, sinking into the fabric of his itchy uniform and leaving him feeling sticky, like he'd just been to visit New Orleans. Considering it was even further south, it wasn't entirely a surprise, but it was still taking time to get used to.

He made his way through the streets, instincts leading him towards Mexico and towards the ever-present feelings that had dragged him west from his birth lands. It was stronger now, almost like a rope tied around his heart, leading him effortlessly towards her house while his men and hers fought a one-sided battle for dominance and territory.

(She hadn't even been able to maintain a steady government presence; she may have won independence like him, but she had never had a Washington or Jefferson to hold things together in the aftermath.

This wasn't a war. It was a slaughter.)

Alfred hesitated briefly before her door - an older building, one he could imagine her growing up in on her own while Spain was at home or with his other territories - before stepping inside, the cool relief from direct sunlight welcome. She already knew he was coming, so she didn't even try to feign surprise when he stepped into her dining room.

"I see you finally decided to show up yourself."

Alfred leaned back against the wall with a shrug. "Well, you kept refusing all my offers to buy up the land, and pretty rudely at that, too."

"Because it is _my_ land, and your people do not deserve to be on it." Mexico hissed, turning her glare on him.

"You sure weren't saying that when we actually bothered to settle and farm the land where you wouldn't. When was the last time you spoke with Texas? How about Alta California?"

Mexico remained silent, lips pressed together thinly while she continued to glower.

Alfred grinned sharply. "You see? It's better for everyone involved if I just take them both off your hands. I might even let you visit occasionally if they want you to."

"You've become no better than the very people we broke away from," She whispered, tone accusatory. "What happened to your talk of freedom and peaceful resolutions?"

"You shot first, if I remember right."

"You keep telling yourself that."

"Do you surrender?"

Silence from her.

"I said, do you surrender, or do I have to conquer the rest of your land first?"

"_Damnit all_, yes, I do." Her face was of one who'd swallowed something bitter, but her eyes still gleamed with the fire of the fight.

"I'm glad we could come to this agreement. I'll make sure you get the money for the land later, but for now, I think you should go talk to your boss about the treaty."

Mexico scowled but complied, holding her head high even in defeat as she strode past him and out the door, her presence making its way towards the government buildings in the distance.

Alfred allowed himself to slump, closing his eyes as he felt for that presence that was now nearly a hum, constantly demanding his attention. Whatever it was was in this house, and this was his one chance to finally answer one of the questions that had always bothered him since he'd realized it wasn't normal to feel drawn to places that weren't one's own.

It took ten minutes to find the staircase down, hidden behind an Indian tapestry depicting the flight of a massive bird passing over the tribes below. It was dark, requiring him to press his hand to the wall to keep his balance even as he descended into the dark.

At the bottom was more darkness and a single gas lamp hanging from a hook on the wall. After some fumbling to light it, he held it up to see what was inside, and forgot how to breathe.

Brown wings with white speckles like stars reached from wall to wall, part of a massive bird posed for the flight he was nearly convinced it would take at any second. He knew those wings - had dreamed of them for over two hundred years -

-how had they shown up here, on the other side of the continent from his Virginia home?

(And why were they real?)

The cloak - for that was what he realized it was - was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, possibly the labor of years by some Indians he would never know. Even the finest art produced by Europe would be hard pressed to make anything close to the simple majesty of it, and it was just hidden away in the dark like some old unwanted clothing.

One thing was certain - this cloak was _his_, and if Mexico complained, it was in his right to demand payment as the winner of their conflict.

He set the lamp down to the side, reverently pulling the cloak from its resting place until it was settled in his arms, the hum dimming back down to almost nothing, though the satisfaction remained.

(Trap or not, this was just too fine a prize to leave in the cellars of some non-power to waste away in darkness.)

~0~0~

He was standing before it again. Twenty years after bringing it home and hanging it up in his dining room (the only place he'd found with enough space to handle the massive wingspan), and he hadn't actually done anything with it besides turn it into a display.

(His states rarely stopped by these days, busy as they were with reparations after the War between them. Russia had stopped by once, before heading home to his icy lands. His bosses rarely felt the need to bother him out here, instead sending messages when he was needed in the capitol.)

Now that the _need _had mostly passed, he'd actually had to stop and think of why such a thing would be so important to him. He was European-born, and nowhere close to endeared with the peoples who'd lived here before him, so why would one of their artifacts demand his attention so much?

He feared the answer. But he simply had to know.

(The dreams hadn't gotten any more or less intense. They had, however, become more varied, with visions of places and people he'd never known but could sometimes name even in his waking hours.)

The cloak was designed to be worn over clothes, or perhaps just for someone a bit taller, a bit older than him. It was also older than himself or Mexico, implying the sort of magics Art- England had always warned him of.

("Age gives things power," The older Nation had told him once. "Always be cautious of things that last far beyond their normal lifespan."

"Like us?" Alfred had asked.

Arthur's lips had pressed together. "Especially like us.")

His fingers reached up, brushing along the feathers on the same arcs he could imagine lightning taking before pulling back, frowning.

If it was some sort of trap for him, why leave it with Mexico? He'd only started seriously expanding in the last few decades, before that fairly content with his coastal claims. If they wanted to hurt him with this, wouldn't they have snuck it into his lands for him to stumble across?

No, Mexico had been scared and angry when he'd found it, not smug, so she was trying to keep it safe from something, or for someone-

Alfred paused, stepped back, and retread that thought.

It'd been hidden in the dark, underground and far from where anyone could marvel at it or even realize its existence. It had never been intended to be found, but he'd known where to find it without issue. Was _he_ what she was trying to keep it from? And if so, why?

(Why had it called to some child of the white people from so far away?)

He had no one to ask; even his dreams shed no light on the issue.

A cloak was meant to be worn, and he couldn't imagine this one was different, magical or not. The question was simply whether it was worth the risk to try it.

(Thunder with each wingbeat, lightning at his beck and call. Ruler of storms, ruler of the skies, ruler of his own freedom. A view of the earth no mortal had ever borne witness to.

A cry that pierced through the loudest storms, unlike any other raptor he'd ever heard.)

(The sky outside was bright blue, warm and inviting in the afternoon sunlight.)

(He'd taken greater risks and pulled through, so what was one more?)

The cloak settled into his arms as easily as always, feathers soft between his fingers as he carried it outside, the clearing behind his house enough space for his needs. He carefully slid his arms through the straps on the wings, the entire cloak settling across his back as if it'd been designed with him in mind.

He pulled his glasses off, tucking them into his shirt, before experimentally moving his arms and thus the wings. They made almost no sound, the only effect the movement had on them at all, nothing like he'd imagined.

It was sort of a letdown after all the worrying he'd done.

The head of the cloak rested on the back of his shoulders. With a bit of shuffling to let the wings fold right, he pulled it up and onto his own head before, with some hesitation, pulling it all the way over his face, blocking his vision entirely.

His eyes shut, and everything changed.

(Arms melted into wings, feet into talons, dull eyes flashing to life before they slid shut. Muscle and tissue and sinew twisted and broke and shifted, all painful but for the complete lack of pain, like it was clay being remolded instead of living flesh.)

The next time the eyes opened, it wasn't entirely America or Alfred behind them anymore.

The Thunderbird had finally been reborn.

~0~0~

_Long ago, a great bird ruled the winds above the Earth. He was known by many names in many tongues - __Kw-Uhnx-Wa, Wakija, binesi - and was revered by all the People wherever he went. There were many such beings of wind and lightning that soared through the skies and lived among the People, but this one was king of them all, immortal and unimaginably strong._

_His wingspan was that of four men lying end to end, with the power to create thunder and lightning with each beat. He could even draw forth the clouds that brought rain, watering the crops and quenching the thirst of the game and the People so that they could farm and hunt. He was believed to be the messenger of the Great Spirit, delivering word of good and bad deeds to him and delivering back the rewards or punishments decreed._

_It was even said that he, like his mortal kin, could remove his feathers and walk among the People as a man. His presence was still obvious to those who knew how to look; his eyes held the wisdom of a hundred elders, his arms the strength of a hundred bears, his wrath a hundred of the fiercest storms._

_No one believed he could be killed._

_Then the Moon Children came in their strange canoes, bringing death and destruction with them._

_None were certain what happened to him, only that one day he flew far south to defend the tribes under attack from the foreigners. He never returned to the skies, even after the passing of many moons. The People mourned, praying his spirit delivered to the Great Spirit to serve as faithfully in death as he had in life._

_A small number believed he had not passed on, but simply let himself be reborn, waiting for his chance to return. Several of that number came to that belief when they spied a white child, young and energetic, with the strength to swing a bison, a knowledge beyond his age, and a deep love for the open skies..._

~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~

AN: Right, so this is the OFFICIAL VERSION -tm- of the Thunderbird AU I've been drabbling about on and off for a while. As you can see, there are a ton more details than before, and a nicer flow and explanation and feel for everything. I've also decided on a final set of characters that'll be focused on for this AU:

America, China, Poland, Finland, Cameroon, Kenya, Uganda. Yes, I'm using three minor African characters, because damnit they have interesting lore too and no one ever touches them and I feel they deserve better.

Sooooooooo yeah, anyways, all the other short drabbles I've written will eventually be remastered and tossed up here, but feel free to ask about other characters or for certain events or whatever, and I'll do my best to indulge. At the least, I will have the tales of all the main characters I listed and how they escaped, along with some modern day things and some other mythological spirits perhaps.

(And if you need to ask, yes, ALL the Nations are technically Spirits (just of their people and not other forces), but ONLY the ones I mentioned managed to work their way around the mass deaths of the Old Ways in order to take places in the new world forming around them. It's... a bit tricky to explain, but I hope I can manage it in future chapters.)


	2. Feliks' Tale

Thunderbird (Hetalia)

Author: Ashynarr

Summary: There was a time where spirits ruled the world, but they all eventually died away as human faith in them faded. A few of the warier ones, however, managed to find their own ways around the issue...

Disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine.

Warning: Lots of mythological references, vaguely OOC characters

~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~

_The few spirits who survived the deaths of their kin were not the oldest, or the cleverest, or even the strongest. They were, however, far more interested in human affairs than most, giving them the most time to realize their world was changing, drifting away from them and their ilk. _

_Warnings were useless - for what power did man have over the spirits they were not granted first? The idea of humans turning away from them seemed ridiculous, for that was how life had always been, and change was not easy for most of them. That did not keep the aware from making plans anyway, watching for the right moments to slip into their new skins._

_One by one, they took their places, and one by one their kin died, going out with whimpers as the world swept ever onwards. _

_Once, there had been a thousand different kinds of spirits and mystical beings the world over._

_Now, there were only a scant handful._

_(In the end, that was enough.)_

~0~0~

Feliks always came back to life at dawn.

As a Nation, immortality was something that simply came with the duty, much like his awareness of his people and his slow aging. Every Nation suffered through death a few times throughout their lives, whether from other Nations, unaware humans, or simple bad luck.

(Drowning was not Felik's favorite way to go, but at least it was easier on his regeneration than burning.)

Honestly, the fact that he always happened to wake up from his latest death right when the sun was rising was negligible in the face of all that; a quirk of his life, much like his dreams of soft, bonfire-lit feathers and crooned melodies in the night.

His early childhood was simple; he wandered the land by day, occasionally coming across a settlement he could spend a few days in before moving on. The people living there would always be wary of an apparently young boy wandering on his own, but his smile always tended to reassure them, and soon he'd have a bed to rest in and enough food to keep him going until he reached the next town.

(He didn't realize until later this wasn't quite normal for a Nation, but then again, he was never really normal, was he?)

At night Feliks would dream of flying amongst the moon washed trees, warmed even on the coldest of nights by his glowing plumage. Sometimes he'd see people in these dreams too - peasants, knights, lords - but in the morning they'd all blur together into indistinction, only a sense of aged amusement echoing in the back of his mind.

He always left at dawn, his parting gift to the family who'd hosted him left out on their table or bed. Sometimes it was some pretty feathers, other times freshly picked herbs and fruits from the nearby woods, and other times yet some small trinket he'd found during his wanderings.

It was several hundred years and several human years worth of growth before that changed, his wanderings taking him to the flatlands settlements that had grown into large towns since the last time he'd passed through. One of the towns he passed by turned out to be under attack, the lord leading the campaign frowning down at the child that had ended up caught wandering past his encampment.

"Who are you?" The man asked.

"Poland," Feliks replied simply.

"I see," He replied after a long moment's thought, a new gleam in his eyes as he looked the old child over. "How do you feel about Christianity?"

"What's that?" The young Nation asked, tilting his head.

(Feliks was baptised a few weeks later, and most of his scattered peoples brought together under the duke's kingdom a few years later.

It felt sort of like willingly stepping into a gilded cage.)

Even as he rose to prominence, his mind warned him trouble was on the horizon. His meetings with the Holy Roman Empire, who looked no older than him but weilded an authority the newly unified Nation lacked, only reinforced those feelings; his lord might have offered him up to the Church as an offering of goodwill, but Feliks would not submit nearly as easily.

His kingdom grew, collapsed, and grew again as his kings did their utmost to stretch their reach out as far as possible, only to lose ground all at once due to spreading their forces too thin. Though he sometimes was sent out on the campaigns, more often than not he was kept in the palace due to his still young appearance, for all intents and purposes a favored pet.

Sometimes he sang when he was alone, his soft voice carrying tunes he barely recalled throughout his small room. Other times he sat by the window, watching the moon and stars move across the sky and wishing he was out there again, wandering the lands with only the goodwill of his people and the occasional lucky find to keep him going.

(Occasionally, he wished he had brilliant wings that could carry him away, the dawn's promise of hope lifting him far above the troubles of the Earth.)

When his king chose to divide the land between his sons instead of giving it all to the eldest, Feliks knew it was doomed to fail even before the man's dying breaths were punctuated with an immediate war between the four, all of whom wanted to claim all the land and glory for themselves.

The only upside to the new conflict that left tiny cuts across his body was that he was free to roam again, drifting between his cities and villages as a young man instead of a child. Decades of salvaged trinkets and jewelry found its way into the hands of those who would let him stay, their surprised pleasure always leaving a smile on his face as he left for his next destination.

The constant warfare took its toll on him, though, even as he made to avoid anywhere conflict seemed to be brewing. The invasions from the East that were slowly but readily killing his people didn't help the matter much, though the loss was made up for by the Germans moving in from elsewhere to fill in the empty places in the growing feudal system around him.

(Was is sad that he missed the days of his youth, where all he had to worry about was where his feet took him next?

At least, it hadn't been this numbingly aching.)

One town he stopped in was different, but only for the young woman he met there. The daughter of a local blacksmith, she would have likely already married if not for the deathly sickness that kept her to her bed, pale and hollowed but still capable of smiling through her pain.

"Are you an angel?" She'd asked when they'd met, eyes half glazed with a new fever.

"No, just a wanderer." Feliks had replied, sympathetic to her pain but unable to do more than pray for her at the small church at the other end of town.

"But you have such pretty wings…" She mumbled, eyes drifting shut again while her father apologized for the delusions.

The Nation felt a bit differently, but he couldn't speak to her again until nearly a sevenday later, after her fever had broken and her energy had returned.

"Are you sure you should be out of bed?" He'd asked on seeing her by the window in a chair, humming to herself as she worked with surprisingly sturdy hands and fingers on a quilt.

"The sun comforts me," She replied, not letting her gaze stray from the needle. "And I do not have long before the Lord takes me, so I've been granted some small freedoms."

Feliks did not ask if she'd tried praying for the sickness to leave her for good; they both knew such actions had already been taken, all to no apparent effect.

She paused in her needlework long enough to turn to him, still smiling. "By the way, I have something for you. I won't have much use for it soon, and my father won't have anyone to pass it to once I'm gone."

Before he could open his mouth to protest, she turned back to her bed, pulling out from between the sheet a brilliant red and orange feather, its colors almost glowing and flickering from within. A deep ache rose within his chest, and wordlessly he accepted the gift, running careful fingers through the plumage while marvelling at its warmth.

"You may not have wings to everyone else," She'd whispered, clasping her hands together in her lap. "But I can still see them when the light's just right."

Feliks didn't reply for a long while, voice caught in his throat. Her eyes were sincere as they watched him, and eventually he couldn't help but smile back, even as sorrowful as it was. "Thank you," He whispered. "I'll keep it safe."

She smiled but said nothing, turning back to her quilt and returning to her task quietly. Feliks stayed beside her, gripping her hand as it slowly came to a halt and brushing her hair back as she took a last, hacking breath before falling deathly still.

Ever so gently, he laid her to rest in her bed, the finest of the jewelry he had left resting on her chest and her unfinished quilt draped over her.

(It was the first and last time he'd ever left at dusk instead of dawn, but he didn't think he could linger any longer there. Though her name would eventually slip from his memory, her face and smile would linger even in his darkest days.

The fiery feather rested against his chest, a warm comfort as the town fell further and further behind him.)

Later still, long enough after her death for the worst of the ache to fade, Feliks met Gilbert for the first time. He knew a few of his lords had had dealings with the Teutonic Knights in order to deal with pagans to the East, so he thought nothing of greeting the other Nation and asking about what brought him through.

That greeting ended with the pale Nation's sword through his chest, Felik's life blood draining out across the road even as the other turned and left, not even staying to watch the Polish Nation die.

Perhaps that was for the best, as the feather on his chest had started to glow brightly, lighting the trees around him. Its glow sank into his cooling body, causing his skin to glow softly and his hair to ripple with flames as it spread out to the ends of his limbs. The light show ended only a few moments later, the glow fading back to nothing and returning the woods to its normal evening darkness.

(In the morning, Feliks would wake to a pile of dust in his shirt and a hundred lifetimes of memories in his mind.

If his hair sometimes glinted orange in the morning light after that, no one ever commented on it. And really, that was for the best.)

~0~0~

_The Slavic firebird, for all his similarities to the Asian phoenix, was a far different being from his distant relatives. _

_His feathers glowed like a bonfire, lighting the night around him like a miniature sun at his most brilliant. Even after the firebird had shed them, they retained their glow, providing light and warmth and comfort to those who found them honestly. To those who took from others, they quickly burned through skin and teeth and hair before fading and crumbling away._

_He had been captured many times over his long life by peasants and nobility alike. Sometimes he was caught unwary, while others he allowed himself to be trapped in a cage and presented to whichever lord demanded his presence. Every time he would watch the court fall apart at his mere presence, the lord's greed becoming his own downfall even as the firebird watched patiently from his gilded cage._

_When he was free to roam the night skies, the firebird would often go to those in need, giving them pearly tears and soft songs to help them through their struggles for a bit longer. He'd even made lords weep those few times he'd sung for them, right before they opened his cage and sent him away, but it was rare for nobles to get a sound out of him._

_The firebird's rebirth came not in fire, but at the dawn's first light, his body rising from its resting place as of one from deep slumber, no matter how terrible the wounds he had suffered. Once, a terrible sorcerer took advantage of this fact by letting him rise every morn only to suffer a new death at his hands; he desired the bird's immortality, but the firebird's will never faltered, even at the sorcerer's cruelest. _

_It is said that one day, right before the firebird was to rise again, the sorcerer came to check on it, only to find the body crumbled to ashes in its cage. The lock had not been broken, nor had the bars been pried apart, but the sorcerer knew without a doubt that the firebird had escaped his grasp at last._

_His scream echoed across the icy lands, vowing that he would find the firebird again, no matter how far he had to search or how long it took._

_Far to the south and west, a small boy opened his eyes for the first time, soft blond hair glinting with streaks of fire as he turned to watch the sun rise._

~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~

AN: Wow, I can't believe I finally got around to this second part finally! And yeah, this is gonna be a trend for how I introduce all of the characters, since I feel it really sets the whole tone best. Hopefully I'll get to the others in a more timely manner, cause then I can actually get around to the other stories like them interacting with each other and the world and their modern day and historical shenanigans and whatnot.

Feliks is a character I have literally never written before, and his history was something I'd only glanced at long enough to determine he was who I wanted to use for the firebird mythos. Put together, it made this chapter a bit trickier to write than I imagined, but I like how it all turned out in the end! (I did sorta take a few liberties with the mythos, so forgive me for that, but I really prefer how this came out.)

If it wasn't clear, this is all set well before the whole Commonweath thing, because even I can tell how much that time period literally just dominates every damned Poland fic ever out there. Fandom, srsly, Feliks has a lot more history than his time with Toris and Ivan, and a lot more interests than valley girl talk and crossdressing. Srsly.


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